


In His Hands

by Shoshanna Gold (shoshannagold)



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-14
Updated: 2009-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-06 14:33:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shoshannagold/pseuds/Shoshanna%20Gold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is a work of fiction is based on characters depicted in the HBO mini-series <i>Generation Kill</i>.</p><p>Slightly cracky PWP. Warning for light blood play. This is for <a href="http://mydocuments.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://mydocuments.livejournal.com/"><b>mydocuments</b></a>, because she said, "Show me Brad and Nate having rough sex," and then stayed up with me all night while I wrote. She also formatted and betaed this story, and really, it wouldn't exist without her. Thanks also to <a href="http://grey-bard.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://grey-bard.livejournal.com/"><b>grey_bard</b></a>, the best full-service beta around.</p>
    </blockquote>





	In His Hands

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of fiction is based on characters depicted in the HBO mini-series _Generation Kill_.
> 
> Slightly cracky PWP. Warning for light blood play. This is for [](http://mydocuments.livejournal.com/profile)[**mydocuments**](http://mydocuments.livejournal.com/), because she said, "Show me Brad and Nate having rough sex," and then stayed up with me all night while I wrote. She also formatted and betaed this story, and really, it wouldn't exist without her. Thanks also to [](http://grey-bard.livejournal.com/profile)[**grey_bard**](http://grey-bard.livejournal.com/), the best full-service beta around.

It was an accident, the first time.

Well, almost an accident.

Brad could be forgiven for being a tad overly enthusiastic.

Six months on the side of a mountain with 42 Commando. Royal Marine grunts actually managed to be more homoerotic than 1st Recon Devil Dogs. Actively so, in fact.

It got so that every time he walked around a big rock—and there were fuck load of big rocks in that hellhole, goddamn mountain ranges—he came across somebody getting jacked off. Or sucked off. Or, hell, fucked. No wonder the battalion kept running out of baby wipes.

In the middle of the motherfucking Khurd Kabul Pass, the most treacherous terrain known to the military man. Afghanis had fucking defeated the entire British army on this very land, and those horny fucks were going at it on the land their where forefathers had spilled blood.

And, Christ, he wasn't even going to think about the goddamn officers. Don't ask, don't tell, as retarded as it was, made everybody paranoid enough that any advances towards him were subtle, and usually from those below him on the food chain. But everything was very circumspect, thank you very much. Fuck, Brad had practically had to hogtie Nate to get him to mount Brad's dick. And even then it didn't happen for the first time until after Nate had left the Corps. They'd both had blue balls for the entire fucking war because of the fucking UCMJ. So when Lieutenant-Major Crosby had 'accidentally' grabbed Brad's dick during a impromptu rugby match, Brad had very nearly come on the spot. Any touch other than his own was apparently more than enough. He'd disabused Crosby of whatever delusion he had that Brad would be interested in his limey, orthodontically-challenged ass with a knee to the groin. All part of the game.

If Brad believed in any kind of higher power, he'd fall down on his knees and thank it for arranging Nate's spring break to start the week that the battalion returned to Plymouth from Kabul. But that was all sentimental, antiquated bullshit. So he pushed Nate down on his knees instead, the second they were alone in a room with a door that locked. And damn it all to hell if Nate didn't just _go_.

Nate didn't waste time on the preliminaries, either. A girl, hell, a lesser man, might have been inclined to go a little slowly. Take some time for them to get to know each other again first. But even though it had been eight months, Nate needed no introduction to Brad's cock, or so Brad presumed by the way Nate had it out of his pants and down his throat in under ten seconds.

Brad had seen slower bullets.

Six months on a rock with a limited library of skin mags and the gayest band since Thebes, seven months since they'd even had the opportunity for phone sex, eight months since he'd known touch beyond his own hand—nobody could blame Brad for the hair trigger. He fucked down Nate's throat, barely conscious of anything besides the supernova taking over his brain and the warm fingers on his balls.

It was only after, when he'd collapsed on to the bed that had fortunately been just behind him—fucking Brits and their rooms built before the Reformation—that he noticed than he'd been squeezing Nate's shoulder.

Nate had followed him down onto the bed, and was taking off his pants, which had somehow survived Brad's pillaging after he'd closed the door behind Nate. Brad was down for the count—presuming the count was no longer than ten minutes—but he was enjoying the show.

Six months of pale naked-ass misshapen midgets had done nothing for him.

If only that were true.

SBS assholes had fucking fantastic bodies. So fine, in fact, that it was an exercise in masochism to look at what Brad wouldn't let himself touch. He'd probably developed some kind of reputation as a goddamn homophobe toward the end of the mission, after he'd done an abrupt about face one night upon entering the field shower granted to them in the last two months in theater.

But, fuck, a dozen Swimmer Canoeists and all that steam? Brad wasn't _made_ of ice. One good game of drop-the-soap and he'd have been up shit creek.

He'd been so taken in by the delightful sight of Nate's nipples, small and brown and slightly pinched already, like Brad had already been sucking on them for an hour—Nate could be a stubborn asshole, himself—that he didn't see the marks on Nate's shoulder right away.

He sat up, his languor blown like it had been hit by friendly arti. "What the fuck?"

Nate didn't look up from untying Brad's boots. "Is there a problem?" His voice was overly tolerant. "Because I'm trying to get you fucking naked and it would be easier if you weren't jerking around like an ill-behaved toddler."

Brad was so distracted he didn't even take time to mock Nate's pissiness. "You're bleeding."

Nate looked at him like he was crazy. "Staff Sergeant, are you having some kind of combat stress reaction? Because I think I'd know if—" Brad lightly touched Nate's shoulder and held up his hand, his fingertips marred slightly with blood. "Oh." Nate let go of Brad's foot and stared at the fingers. He brought his right hand to his left shoulder, tilting his head to look at the grooves left by Brad's nails.

Without saying anything, Nate brushed his fingers lightly over the marks, at first, assessing the damage Brad had done, while Brad stared, feeling more helpless than he ever had in his life. He'd never hurt somebody he—he'd never hurt any of his partners. Bruises now and then, if he held on too tightly, but Nate, at least, had never seemed to mind.

He should say something, he knew that. Apologize, at the very least, though he was tempted to abase himself in a way completely foreign to him until this moment. _Fuck._

Nate didn't seem upset, though. Captivated would be a better word for the way he was slowly touching each mark. And then, to Brad's utter shock, he pressed down hard with his thumb on the biggest weal. His eyes closed and he moaned, pushing his own nail into the cut.

"Nate?"

And the universe decided that he wasn't flummoxed enough, that he needed to be knocked on his ass a little more, because Nate opened his eyes, looked at Brad, and _blushed_. It was a goddamn good thing Brad was sitting down, because you could have bowled him over with a sparrow's feather.

Two years he'd been fucking one Nathaniel Fick, former Captain, Marine Corps. Long enough to know that all appearances to the contrary, Nate was one of the filthiest, kinkiest motherfuckers Brad had ever occasioned upon. Not that Brad was complaining. He'd sucked Nate's cock after he'd reamed Brad's ass. He'd had Nate eat his own come from Brad's fingers. He'd handcuffed Nate to the headboard and fucked him with a dildo until Nate was begging to come, his orgasm thwarted by the cock ring wrapped around his balls.

The point was they'd done pretty much everything that two people could do to each other involving acceptable body fluids—and one that wasn't, really— and talked all the way through it, because Nate should have been the one writing Beaver Trail instead of that liberal pansy-ass, Scribe. Not once had Nate paused, hesitated, or balked. He most certainly had never fucking blushed. Brad would have noticed.

Because, _Christ_, was it a good look for Nate.

Brad's world tilted on its axis and righted itself in the time it took him to blink. He stroked his thumb down Nate's cheek, before putting his fingers to Nate's lips. It was the barest ghost of a touch, more question than suggestion, but Nate's answer was unequivocal as he licked Brad's fingertips and then moved to take them in his mouth.

Oh, Holy Christ on a motherfucking cross. Brad's brain shorted out again as Nate sucked his own blood off Brad's hand.

And then, before he had processed the fact that Nate had even moved, he was pushed down onto his back and Nate was attacking Brad's mouth with his own. This wasn't kissing, this was a full-scale invasion. Brad had excellent reflexes, though, and he was accustomed to following where Nate led, so he went boneless and kissed back with everything he had.

At that moment, Brad abandoned his belief in the laws of physics, because the world went from standing completely still to exploding in a flurry of motion, as he and Nate stripped off every inch of clothing left on them. Later, Brad would find his boot on top of the bookshelf across the room. But at that moment all he registered was the sensation of Nate's body pressed to his own, water running over his flesh after eight months of fucking drought.

Nate rutted against him and Brad reached down to take their cocks in hand. His hand was batted away, as Nate grasped them both, squeezing hard enough for Brad to gasp into their kiss.

He made an interrogative sound and Nate broke away long enough look at him for a minute. He'd never looked away from Nate's stare, and he damn well wasn't going to start now, despite the question in it that he hadn't seen directed his way since well before Iraq, though he knew it well, from seeing it levelled upon others. Nate was trying to decide if he trusted him with this, whatever this may be. Brad wasn't entirely sure, but it promised to scorching.

He'd passed muster, apparently, because Nate was kissing him again, rubbing his hand up and down the lengths of their dicks. Without looking down, he thumbed the head of Brad's cock, spreading the precome there. Brad arched up and Nate bit his lower lip. "Touch my shoulder again," he said. Brad complied, stroking it lightly, not wanting to do any more damage. Nate had no such compunctions, and bit Brad's lip again, much harder. "Let me clarify that: hurt me." Nate shifted, digging his knee into Brad's thigh, in case Brad hadn't understood exactly what he meant.

Fuck it, they'd gone this far. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it right. No random groping and pinching for them. He took a second to pull his brain out of his dick and focused on Nate's shoulder.

There were dark bruises, purple and green blending into each, where Brad must have held on while Nate had blown him, each one punctuated by a half-moon cut, some deeper than others. He laid his fingers over the marks already there, pushing down a little as he looked back up at Nate. Letting out a long sigh, Nate nodded and kissed him again, licking the edges of Brad's mouth. Well, that was as clear of a go order as he'd ever gotten.

He kissed back, and then pulled away, taking time to bite Nate's lip. Favors returned, and all that. Nate moaned, and the hand on Brad's cock got even tighter. He squeezed Nate's shoulder once more, the flat plane of his fingers distressing the already injured skin. He drew his nails over the contusions, stopping as Nate thrust down on him again.

In one fluid movement he pulled away from Nate, liberating his cock, and then shifted, rolling so Nate was on his belly underneath him. He palmed Nate's shoulder with his left hand, flexing his fingers and digging in his nails. Nate shuddered beneath him as Brad pulled away to rummage in the bedside drawer. The lube was front and center, a strip of condoms beside it. He'd bought them when he bought the lube, knowing it would be months before they saw any action, but liking the promise they held every time he looked in that drawer.

Nate looked over his shoulder—the one Brad hadn't cut all to hell—at him. "Hurry the fuck up."

Brad grinned. "You're so my bitch, aren't you, sir?"

"Asked and answered, Brad. Now pull your thumb out of your ass and get it in mine."

"Roger that, sir." He leaned up for another kiss, first. Unlimited access to that mouth was one of the best thing in Brad's life, and after they were finished entertaining Nate's kink, they were going to focus on a few of Brad's.

Brad rolled the condom on, and then spilled out some lube, slicking up his cock. Nate's legs were spread, his ass pushed up, and Brad couldn't resist slapping it hard, once, twice. "If I weren't completely primed to fuck your asshole, Nate, I'd give you a spanking that would make what I did to your shoulder look like amateur hour."

Nate smirked over his shoulder. "I'm not the only kinky fucker in the room now, am I?"

"Asked and answered," Brad mocked. He breached Nate's hold with his index finger, add more lube as he pushed deeper inside. Nate took a deep breath, and usually Brad would have stopped, given him a chance to adjust. But this wasn't about slow and easy. He added a second finger, and Nate tensed and flexed around him, taking a shuddering breath. Brad stroked down and Nate arched up, moaning. Even relaxed, Nate was impossibly tight. Long eight months all around, it seemed.

That would do, for Brad's purposes. He passed over his cock once more, adding another layer of lube, and then braced himself over Nate, spreading his asshole with scissored fingers as he pushed the head of his cock in. Nate moaned and tried to buck up under him, but Brad's hips had him pinned. Pulling his hand free, Brad pushed in all the rest of the way, biting down on Nate's wounded shoulder when his balls slapped against Nate's ass.

"Brad—Oh, God, Brad. Fuck, you're splitting me in two." Nate's moan sounded pained. Brad paused and Nate turned his head back for a kiss, nipping at Brad's mouth. "Christ, don't stop."

There was no way that Nate's ass didn't hurt like hell; Brad wasn't small. He hadn't skimped on the lube, but Nate could have taken some more fingers before Brad fucked him. It didn't seem to impeding Nate's pleasure, if anything, it built on it. Brad thrust in again, hard, and Nate moaned again, a long, pleading sound. Another thrust, this time biting down what looked like an incredibly tender bruise on Nate's shoulder, and Nate spasmed around him, crying out as he came.

Brad tried to hold out—he'd just gotten off fifteen minutes before and it's not like he was a teenager any longer. He had self-control, damn it. Usually. But Nate's final shivers sent him over the edge, and he groaned in pleasure, thrusting in deep and hard, not thinking as he sank his teeth into Nate's shoulder again as he came, every muscle in his body tensing and then releasing into sheer bliss. He managed to not collapse and crush Nate—though that would probably just make Nate come again, pain slut that he'd turned into—but took a minute to catch his breath, resting his forehead in the groove between Nate's shoulder blades. Nate squirmed and Brad lifter himself higher, giving Nate space to roll over onto his back, still under Brad.

For a minute they just looked at each other. Words would be extraneous at this moment, Brad could see everything he needed to know in Nate's sated gaze. They kissed, softly, and Nate licked the spot on Brad's lip he'd bitten earlier, before suckling it tenderly.

Brad would get up, soon, and drag Nate with him. They could both use a shower, and he wanted to dress Nate's shoulder, maybe find some kind of ointment for Nate's ass. Once they were clean and he was sure Nate wasn't going to develop sepsis or something , there needed to be some after action analysis. A shitload of previously unknown factors had come to light today, and he felt sure that once he and Nate discussed them, they could lay out some more detailed objectives.

After all, deep water recon was what he did best.


End file.
